


i got it (hands off)

by dociswaldo



Series: the distance keeps calling me on [2]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen, No Dubcon/Noncon, Wheeljack-centric, despite the title/summary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dociswaldo/pseuds/dociswaldo
Summary: Wheeljack needs the giant men of the black-ops team he’d beenkidnapped byforcibly reassigned to to stop touching him. Seriously, guys.





	i got it (hands off)

A rough hand shoves Wheeljack’s goggles down over his face. They catch on the bridge of his nose and his cheekbone, stinging. He’s turning with a scowl, ready to rip somebody a new one, but pulls up short as he registers the offender as his new CO, staring down at him. 

“We’re in the fucking fire zone, kid. Put your gear on and strap the fuck in. If we get shaken up, nobody wants your guts on them.” The big mech turns and stomps away. Wheeljack drops into his seat, doing his best to ignore his teammate’s snort. “Springer’s an ass, but he’s got a point, y’know.” The mech’s voice is deep and amused. Wheeljack wants to hear it again. The mech obliges. “Name’s Bulkhead. He wasn’t kidding about gear. You should fix your boots.” 

Wheeljack debates ignoring him, then gave in. “The fuck’s wrong with my boots?” Across the transport’s aisle, another mech scoffs. “They’ll be undone in 5 kliks, dumbass.” Wheeljack barely gets his hands up in time to grab the tape the other guy had pitched at his head. He eyes it, then the other two. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Bulkhead apparently loses patience, because he relieves Wheeljack of the tape and grabs his leg, the calf swallowed by the biggest fucking hand, what the fuck. 

Wheeljack knows how to react to this part. Even twisted around awkwardly in his seat by his captive leg, held down by the straps, he lunges forward, going for Bulkhead’s elbow- fuck up the joint enough, he’d have to let go- when from his other side, hands grab his arms and yank them back. “What the hell-” The new mech leans over him. “Hold still, dumbass. He’s just fixing your boots. The hell did they send us a science mech for?” Wheeljack hears the sound of tearing tape, and feels pressure around his ankle. Lifting his head, he can just barely see the tape wrapping a good portion of the ankle of his boot, holding his laces down securely. Both release him at the same time, and he jerks upright in time to fumble for the tape shoved at his chest. Bulkhead grins at him. It’s not very nice. “Can you do the other one, or is that too much for the geek to handle?” 

Wheeljack narrows his eyes. “Look, fellas. I’m here because none of you bozos know how to deal with the mines the ‘cons are putting out. You don’t like it? Tough, you shoulda learned to do it yourselves.” He lifts his other leg, settling the ankle against his knees as he wraps the tape. Across the aisle, the mech who’d called him a dumbass whistled mockingly. Beautiful. This was shaping up to be an absolutely brilliant mission. “And I’m not in Science, either. Engineering. There’s a fucking difference.” He sets his boot back on the floor, testing the range and flex. “You’re gonna want me on your good side, seein’ as how I’m the one with the know-how. Take a wild guess who’s expendable on this transport right now. C’mon, go ahead.” The mech who’d held down his arms snorts. “Yeah, alright. Whatever you say. Look, I’m Topspin. Dumbass over there is Twintwist. Don’t be pissy because we don’t want our new bomb expert to break his own neck before he does his damn job.” Wheeljack side eyes him a moment later, then nods. “Wonderful.” 

The sarcasm earns a snort from the CO- Springer- who’d been standing there for who knew how long. “Alright boys, knock it off. We’re almost to the drop zone. Hope everybody brought their hang gliders.” Wheeljack stares at him. Hang gliders. Fucking Special Forces, fucking lunatics with badges- He catches the smirk, barely. Thank the Well, the maniac was joking. Holy hell. Snickers go up and down the transport, but he doesn’t care. There’s better things to worry about. The transport shudders as the pilot takes her down, and Wheeljack stands when the others do. When they’d all been sitting down, it hadn’t been so obvious, but now- now, he realizes he’s short as hell next to these assholes. Brilliant. That wasn’t gonna bite him in the ass later, not at all. These definitely weren’t the type to mow over anybody they couldn’t see without looking down, nope. He was going to get stepped on, he could feel it. 

Bulkhead grabs his shoulder, leaning down over him. “Stick by me, kid. If nothing else, I’m a decent meat shield.” When Wheeljack jerks his eyes up to him, startled, the big mech shrugs. “Expendable, remember?” Wheeljack doesn’t answer, turning back to the transport door as it creaks open. This thing would never pass inspection. He’s jostled as the other guys head out, shoving past him. He almost gets knocked over- and then he would most definitely been stepped on- until Bulkhead grabs him again, tugging him against a broad chest. “Just hang on a klik, kid. Let the hotheads out first.” Wheeljack rolls his eyes. If nothing else, he needs to get everyone to stop calling him kid. It’s mere parsecs later the shuttle is clear, and he tugs free to follow. His back is very warm through his jacket where he’d been pressed against Bulkhead. 

They jog after the main group, and Bulkhead doesn’t seem to get that running is not an ideal time for conversation. “Never caught your name. Let me guess, it’s-” He cuts off in time to duck as seekers shriek overhead, their pilots scouting before the main troops. The fast, terrifyingly maneuverable planes are gone before anyone’s gun comes up. Bulkhead is undeterred, plowing ahead. “-Halfblast? Y’know, ‘cause you don’t wait a minute before going off half cocked and pissy?” Wheeljack gives him an incredulous look. To engage or not to engage, that was the question. Eh, what the hell. “Wheeljack. What’d you say yours was again?” They slow as the others do and Wheeljack has enough time to finish in a mutter, “Quickspike, ‘cause you’re so quick to be a dick?” He slides away, making sure there’s plenty of room between him and Bulkhead before the words register. He’s not scared of this asshole, but he’d rather not get punched before the fun really starts. 

Springer grabs his shoulder and drags him up to the front- all righty then- and plops him directly down in front of an armed explosive, attached to the wall of rock. Wheeljack shifts off his knees into a crouch. He doesn’t pay much attention to the din behind him. They’re awfully loud for a strike force, but what the fuck does he know. It doesn’t take long to deal with the bomb- it’s simpler than what he was told he might be dealing with- and the charge is carefully stashed in his subspace. Better not to leave it for a ‘con to find and use. He stands and turns back to the unit, jerks his head at the faintly sparking framework that’d held the explosive. “One down.” 

Springer’s face is unreadable as he waves them on. Wheeljack sticks close to the CO, keeping bright green between him and the dark green of Bulkhead’s jacket. He has better things to do than deal with that asshole. The tape he’d wrapped himself squeaks softly with each step, and he winces. At least he’s not clomping along like a herd of cy-cows. If there was one thing Wheeljack is, it’s quiet. It takes a good while to reach a mouth in the rock, but they make it. Eventually. There were several fistfights- started by Topspin- and Wheeljack had only barely avoided getting shoved headfirst into the drama. 

A tall, strangely gangly mech keeps prowling beside him, idly clicking prosthetic claws as he peers down at Wheeljack. The mech’s single eye is an unsettling yellow, and the massive scarring around it and the empty socket of his other eye suggest he didn’t lose it quietly. Wheeljack decides to handle this strange mech the same way he’d handle wasps getting pissy- he avoids eye contact and keeps his voice low when he has to talk. The others in the unit keep running the guy- Whirl- off, but he keeps coming right back. Wheeljack finally just waves Twintwist off when he tries again, but gets a ping on his private comm. It’s Bulkhead. “Look, kid. We’d appreciate it if our one-man bomb squad didn’t get pulverized because he breathed wrong. Just hang out by Impactor or something, and Whirl won’t bother you too much.” 

Wheeljack eyed the big guy across the way. Bulkhead looks painfully earnest. Holding eye contact, Wheeljack gives a two-handed thumbs down. Bulkhead groans through the comm link as he shuts it off, but Wheeljack shrugs and keeps walking. Whirl hasn’t slagged him so far, maybe the luck’ll hold. There’s been an odd and frankly suspicious lack of explosives for a mission that ‘required’ somebody specifically trained to deal with explosives, but, hey. What does he know? Whirl finally fucks off to who knows where, and Wheeljack doesn’t bother checking to find out. 

Springer clamps a heavy hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder- what is it with these guys manhandling him? Primus- and pulls him to the side, shoves him against the rough rock wall. “All right. You-” he pokes Wheeljack in the chest- “Are gonna stay here. Got that?” Wheeljack scowls up at him. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Springer eyes him a moment more, then backs off. He gestures sharply to the others, and Wheeljack is left alone as they file away, suddenly all business.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this to explain a line in going nowhere slowly. it got away from me  
> [peggy sang the blues](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84Ns6ouwO1g)


End file.
